


Superior Spiderman

by isthisenoughorcanwegohigher



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Welters Challenge 2019, and he told me about superior spiderman, and i had such a flash of inspiration for this, cause of that new far from home clip that came out, my friend and i were talking about the superior iron man thing, nope this is very canon compliant (unfortunately), so here we go again with this, theme 4: ships, this is not a fix it fic or anything, with peter and mysterio talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-15 15:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19298440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthisenoughorcanwegohigher/pseuds/isthisenoughorcanwegohigher
Summary: Quentin finds an old collection of comic books his dad tried to get him to read as a kid. Upon reading them, he realizes just how much they parallel his situation with the Monster possessing Eliot. Except Eliot is dead, and has been since the Monster possessed him. Right? But there are two things Quentin doesn't know--Eliot is very much alive inside his own head. And Quentin's time in this life is running out.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> _Maybe redemption has stories to tell_   
>  _Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell_   
>  _Where can you run to escape from yourself?_   
>  _Where you gonna go?_

The very first thing Quentin had done when everything was all said and done--when their memories were back to stay and their identities and location protected, he’d called his mother.

He knew from the very moment his phone had started ringing back in Marina’s apartment that it wouldn’t be good news. He knew that he’d been living as Brian for too long to be able to say goodbye. 

Magic disappeared and his father was safe. 

Quentin brought magic back, stupid, needy, clingy bastard that he was, and it came back and so did his father’s cancer. It seemed too ironic for it to be anything but planned by the universe that always seemed to have a vendetta against him that by bringing back the one thing that had once made him feel whole, Quentin had lost his father as much as he had lost himself.

But still he’d called his mother, and she’d answered, furious and upset, confused. And he couldn’t tell her a damn thing. He had no explanations, no excuses. There was nothing left to say. And so here he was now, cleaning out his father’s things.

His mother had said that he could keep anything that he felt he couldn’t live without. He didn’t say that, staring down the room full of boxes and bags, he felt he couldn’t live without his father. This was all too much. Even if his father wouldn’t have been able to help, he would have been at the very least a non-judgemental shoulder to cry on.

Quentin couldn’t remember the last time he cried.

With a weary sigh, Quentin sat down with a box and began digging through the things his father had left behind. There was so much to go through, he wasn’t sure he would finish it by sundown. Not that he cared. He didn’t. He really didn’t. But there was just so much of it. Quentin promised to himself in that moment that when he knew he was going to die, he would make sure to be rid of as many of his possessions as possible, so no one was stuck throwing them out for him.

By the time Quentin had sorted nearly six boxes, almost an hour and a half had passed. Things would go a lot faster if he could use magic to sort out the junk, but if he did that the McAllisters or the Library would find him, and that would be very bad, with a capital “v” and a capital “b”.

Reaching into the next box, Quentin pulled out a stack of papers. A layer of dust had settled on them like so many of the other things he’d been through. He wiped the dust away with his sleeve and stared blankly at the top page in his hand before he let out a harsh breath and let the stack fall to the floor, though he made no move to pick it up, staring at it in pained shock instead.

 

_ Quentin was sitting at the kitchen table working on his calculus homework when a stack of magazines was set down on top of his page of formulas. _

_ “What the hell, Dad?” Quentin demanded, staring up at Ted Coldwater with a fire in his eyes. “I’m trying to get ahead in class so I can go to that talk tonight, and meet that--” _

_ “Magician, I know,” Ted said, dragging a chair away from the table and dropping into it, facing Quentin. “But I found these at the comic store today, and I thought you might enjoy them. Finally get out of the world of Fillory and magic and read some superhero stuff, you know?” _

_ Quentin bit back his less than friendly response and settled for rolling his eyes before taking a better look at the stack of comics he now realized his father had placed in front of him. _

_ The comic on top of the stack portrayed Spiderman wall-crawling through tangled webs. The title declared it to be “The Superior Spiderman”. Quentin noted the number one emblazoned on the cover and guessed that the rest of the stack was the continuation of this superior Spiderman nonsense. _

_ “Dad--” Quentin started, but Ted cut him off. _

_ “I at least want you to try it, Curly-Q. One issue.” The look Ted was giving him was such a pleading and desperate look that Quentin could not bring himself to deny the request. _

_ “One issue,” he agreed, grabbing the top comic from the stack and retreated to his room. _

_ He emerged an hour later, hoping a frown would mask his...not enjoyment. He wouldn’t say that he’d enjoyed the story. But he’d become intrigued by it, and if there was one thing he was not, it was a quitter. _

_ The only hitch in his plan was Ted, sitting at the table with a book of his own, clearly waiting for Quentin to return. _

_ “What did you think?” Ted asked, his face the picture of polite inquiry, though his eyes sparked with a need that Quentin would never be able to understand. _

_ “It wasn’t that great,” Quentin lied, curling his toes up with the effort of making the lie believable. “And the art made it confusing. I didn’t like it.” _

_ Ted closed his book and sighed wearily. “Alright then, Q. Thank you for trying.” _

_ Quentin hummed in response and set the first issue back down on the table. “I’m pretty tired. Think I’m going to go to bed.” _

_ “What about that magician?” Ted was staring at Quentin as though he’d never seen him. _

_ “I already know everything he’s going to do at this talk,” Quentin said, rushing slightly. That wasn’t a lie. He did know all the tricks that would be performed at this particular talk, he just hadn’t seen them done by this particular magician before. Every magician had a unique signature to their magic, and he was determined to learn as many styles as possible so he could really develop his own. But suddenly finding out how this story ended seemed far more important than learning one more magician’s signature touch to magic. “So no need to really go see it, it just sounded fun, you know? Anyways, good night, Dad.” _

_ Ted looked more than a little surprised, but he just nodded. “Night, then.” _

_ Quentin rushed back to his room and waited with baited breath until he heard the familiar snores coming from Ted’s room. _

_ As soon as they started, he snuck back into the kitchen and grabbed the remaining thirty two issues of Superior Spiderman from the table. He listened carefully for a moment just to make sure, and then he dashed back to bed, where he read the rest of the comics with a flashlight under his covers until the early hours of the morning. _

 

Quentin wasn’t aware that he was crying until he felt the moisture drip down his chin. Oh, his father must have known. There was no reason to hold onto the comics for all this time otherwise.

Now, of course, Quentin couldn’t remember most of the story to save his life, but he remembered those hours in his bed, burning with a curiosity he hadn’t felt again until he’d found Brakebills.

That curiosity returned now as he flipped through the comics in front of him, eager to recall the events of the story.

He didn’t realize how lost he was in re-reading the story until the Monster appeared in the room, glancing around with the standard look of lofty disapproval.

“What do you have there?” the Monster asked, eyeing the stack of comics on the floor.

“Nothing,” Quentin said quickly, throwing the word in front of the waterfall of an explanation that threatened to spill from his mouth at the chance to tell Eliot about this wonderful world he’d forgotten about.

This wasn’t Eliot.

_ And that hadn’t been Spiderman. _

The thought hit Quentin with all the force of a battle spell, and for the first time since he’d stuck a sword in Ember back in the throne room of Fillory, he felt a spark of hope.

Otto hadn’t been able to kill Spiderman. Perhaps the Monster hadn’t been able to kill Eliot, either.

This hope was crushed shortly after the Monster convinced Quentin to smash his father’s model airplanes.

The Monster had said that it was better if Quentin didn’t suffer like this anymore over Eliot. Eliot was well and truly did. And this didn’t surprise Quentin. Spiderman was a character in a comic book, a fictional universe where the heroes always won out. This wasn’t fiction, this was real fucking life, and Eliot was gone.

For the second time that day, Quentin found himself crying, and he hated how comforting it felt to have the Monster rest Eliot’s head on his shoulder.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _What day is it? And in what month?_   
>  _This clock never seemed so alive_   
>  _I can't keep up and I can't back down_   
>  _I've been losing so much time_

_ “Peaches and plums, motherfucker!” _

Those four words had been echoing around in Quentin’s head, making him dizzy and confused. He felt like he was listing through life, half awake, half asleep.

After all their preparations to kill the Monster and all his acceptance that Eliot had been gone from the moment they stepped into Castle Blackspire, that they were just getting rid of the haunted body of Eliot, there was no way that Eliot could be alive. It didn’t match with everything that Quentin had come to know about the Monster. Surely it was just a trick on the Monster’s part, a sick joke to keep them from trapping and killing it?

But the question lingered, and the more Quentin thought about it, the more he wanted to believe it. Eliot was alive, trapped inside his own head as the Monster used him to achieve a purpose that had not as yet become clear to the group of Magicians who just wanted their friend back.

And so Quentin believed it, and despite hesitation from his friends, he had their support. Especially from Margo. 

She, too, needed Eliot to still be alive. Who she was without Eliot, after all this time, wasn’t something she was willing to find out.

As such, when the opportunity presented itself to finally save Eliot, it was taken. Margo went on a quest for her axes and returned triumphant. All that was left was to use the axes to free Eliot from the Monster’s grasp, trap, and be rid of the Monster. And the Monster’s sister.

The sister was a twist that had thrown everyone, but it didn’t matter now, because Julia and Eliot could be saved. They were going to be okay.

And so when the pair made it into the Library, Quentin, Alice, Margo, and Penny put their plan into action.

It worked surprisingly well. The Monster’s sister was taken by surprise and rather quickly, Julia was safe. If they’d been smart, they would have realized that it was her divinity that kept her safer than Eliot. But no one in the group claimed to be that smart. 

And then it was time to go after the Monster and free Eliot, and seeing Margo hit Eliot with her axes was one of the worst things Quentin had seen in his life. He silently hoped that he would never have to see anything like that again, because it took all of his self control to complete the incorporate bond that would trap the Monster and not run to Eliot.

With Eliot and Julia on the mend from their injuries and the Monster and Sister contained, the only thing left to do was make the trip to the Mirror World and toss them both into the Seam. It didn’t seem like there was anything that could go wrong. Except, of course, the complications that would arise when Eliot was conscious again, and Quentin had to deal with how he felt about both Alice and Eliot.

“You ready?” Penny’s question interrupted Quentin’s line of thought and he looked up. Penny and Alice were standing in the doorway, eyeing him.

“Yeah,” Quentin answered, rising and reaching out to take one of the bottles from Alice. He gave Penny a meaningful stare. “Are you?”

Penny nodded, the only hint of disapproval a familiar glint in his eyes.

“Let’s go, then,” Quentin said.

Together, the three of them moved towards the mirror in the living room and, after a deep breath, stepped through.

In hindsight, Quentin should have known that something would go wrong. None of their plans ever worked out the way they were supposed to, and this was just another plan gone wrong. They’d been taught at Brakebills to consider all variables, and yet they somehow never did. None of them had thought that Everett would follow them to the Seam and break the mirror. And now Quentin was faced with a choice.

The incorporate bond keeping the Monster trapped in the bottle wouldn’t last forever. So, Quentin could either give the bottle up to Everett, who would become a god. Or Quentin could repair the mirror and throw the bottle in the Seam. He knew the risks. Knew that the magic here was unpredictable at best and deadly at worst. 

He  _ thought  _ he knew the risks. But here he was, spell cast, magic backfiring, and Penny was dragging Alice from the room, from the world, from him, and he didn’t know, he didn’t want this. But he hesitated, because part of him still did, part of him always had.

Oh, God, a small part of him was so relieved as he saw the reflection of the sparks in Alice’s glasses, as he felt the pain start and felt his atoms split apart. A small part of him was happy, relieved, ecstatic. There would be no coming back from this.

Mostly, though, he felt fear and regret and pain and anger and a deep, immense ache. Quentin would never make it back to Eliot’s side.

He wouldn’t be there when Eliot woke up, he wouldn’t be able to hold Eliot’s hand and steady him as they hugged. He wouldn’t be able to show Eliot those comics and laugh about how he really believed for a moment that Eliot could be compared to Spiderman.

Those stupid comics. They’d given him hope and he’d let hope blindly lead him to this death, this unsatisfactory, regretful end.

And then there was nothing. No pain, no fear. Just nothing.

And then the elevator doors slid open, and Quentin’s mouth twisted up into a sad smile as he finally saw Penny again. 


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And here I go again on my own_   
>  _Goin' down the only road I've ever known_   
>  _Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone_

**I.**

You weren’t at my side when I woke up with axe wounds in my abdomen. You weren’t even in the room. I thought that maybe you were outside in the hallway, waiting, because of some stupid new Brakebills rule limiting one visitor to each room.

At the very least, I thought for sure that Margo would rush off to find you when she realized I was awake.

I guess I felt numb when she didn’t? It’s better than saying that I didn’t feel anything, but the truth is I guess I don’t know what I felt.

I was so sure that someone would tell you I was awake, and you’d come rushing in, doing that thing you do when you’re trying not to cry and you bite your lip and smile but your eyes are glossy and bright. I was positive that you’d grab my hand and refuse to let it go, that you’d berate me for bringing that damn gun to Fillory again. I should have known better after Margo brought it.

Then I would have told you that I would never know better, and you should know that, and you’d laugh and I’d laugh and maybe I would have more than a couple of seconds to let you know I was alive, and maybe I would finally be brave enough to lean over and kiss you and show you that I was done running. Done being afraid.

Maybe it’s only fair that you’re running, too, because neither of us would actually have any idea of what to say to all this, would we? There wouldn’t be any words.

Maybe I don’t feel nothing about this, Quentin. Maybe it wasn’t a numbing feeling, but a paralyzing feeling of being left alone. It shouldn’t be anything new, because unless you count Margo, and somehow people never do, I’ve always been alone.

I felt less alone when I met you and now I can’t find you and you aren’t here and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to do this without you anymore, Q.

Why aren’t you here?

 

**II.**

This is bullshit. All of this is bullshit. You can’t be dead. You wouldn’t do that to me. To us.

To yourself.

I trusted you, and this is how you repay me? You let yourself die saving the world? Some big heroic sacrifice. That’s what some people are calling it. You died making sure that Monster couldn’t wreak havoc on this world anymore, you died to bring back magic. Again.

You’ve always been the one that wanted to make the sacrificial play, and this time it finally backfired on you, didn’t it? I wonder if maybe it’s what you deserve. But you would never deserve that.

I just can’t understand. You had to have known the risks. You had to have known that you might die. Did you want to die? Did you just stop caring? Was it really too much for you, everything that we’d been through?

I thought you said that we would do this together. Everything. We had a lifetime together and I thought you wanted another. I thought you said we had a chance at another, if we were just willing to take that chance.

Maybe I wasn’t, before, but I was just scared, and I think you were too. And it’s not fair that you made this choice for yourself, for us, just because you got tired.

You aren’t the only person who’s lost and suffered and been through shit, Q. The rest of us are still standing. So fuck you for not standing here with us.

 

**III.**

I just wish you were here, Q.

I hear you in the nervous laughter of the first years that drift around campus, staring at Margo and I as we whisper to each other.

I see you in Julia’s bright eyes every time she twists her fingers and makes sparks dance. When she runs her hands over the deck of cards and sighs wistfully, I see your face, tongue sticking out as you demonstrate another trick.

I feel you in the hugs our friends give me. None of them ever feel quite right, and I know it’s because I will never feel your arms around me again, never feel your face pressed into my chest, never feel the heat radiating from your cheeks when we lie down together.

I would do anything to hug you, one last time.

I keep wondering what I would have done if I’d known those hours in Castle Blackspire would be our last together.

Would I have held you closer? Would I have told you the truth, fear be damned? Or would I have changed nothing, because despite every wish I make on the distant stars, I know I will always be afraid to be close to someone again?

I just want to see you one last time, Q. We wouldn’t have to say anything. There was nothing to say goodbye to. No body. Nothing. And I didn’t know. I couldn’t save you. I just miss you.

I’d do anything to be with you again.

 

**IV.**

I don’t know how to do this without you any more. I guess I’ll be seeing you soon, Q.

 

**V.**

Margo found me. Margo always finds me. Usually I’m grateful for it, but this time I was so mad at her, Q. I didn’t want her to find me. To save me.

I know I haven’t talked to you for a while now. I just needed time, I guess? You’re gone, and that still aches so badly that sometimes I wake up wondering how the only wounds I have are axe wounds. There should be a hole in my chest, too. All this pain would make so much more sense if I could actually see it. But there’s nothing there. It’s all emotional, and that’s not something you can put stitches in and take pills for until the wound closes.

But I can’t hide from the fact that you’re gone anymore. It makes me angry, and that anger makes me do stupid things.

I wish I could look Margo in the face and tell her that I’m sorry for what I did, that I didn’t mean it, that I would take it back if I could.

Truth is, though, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t change anything about the choices I made that brought me here. Even if it means being here without you, being alive without you, going through all the shit being a magician is without you, I would make all those choices, again and again. I think Margo knows that, and I think that’s part of why she can’t stay mad at me. Because in the end, she’d say the same thing.

Our lives were so much better for having you in them, Q. None of us would change that for the world.

Even if it meant that you would still be alive.

We love you, Q, and we damn well miss you. You’re an idiot for doing what you did, and when I do see you again, I’m going to give you hell for it. I hope you know that.

But I understand, and I think I can work on forgiving you.

This isn’t goodbye, Q. I could never say goodbye to you. This is just a temporary farewell. We’ll see each other again, in time.

And then maybe when we have all the time in the world, we can have that life together. Even if it’s a life after death. An eternity in the Underworld wouldn’t be half bad if I get to spend it with you.

I hope you don’t wait for me, though, because I don’t think I’m going to be able to wait for you. You know that.

Until we meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of wanted this last bit to be from Eliot's POV, but I don't think I've quite nailed his voice yet. That's okay, though. Something to work on! :D


End file.
